


Hell Has Grandmothers Too

by merrymercutio (GrantearingMeApart)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Gen, grannies from hell - Freeform, how do i explain that, weird ooc fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3100700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantearingMeApart/pseuds/merrymercutio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a normal day in Aziraphale's book shop, but everything is upturned when a band of old ladies arrive...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell Has Grandmothers Too

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliceapproved](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aliceapproved).



> This was for [aliceapproved](http://aliceapproved.tumblr.com) on Tumblr for the Good Omens 2014 holiday gift exchange, and I had a lot of fun with the prompt! It was really mean to be Crowley scaring off customers with shapeshifting fun, but then it... evolved, shall we say, into this monstrosity.
> 
> Many thanks to Starky, who I'm told lives under piles of paperwork! You can find this doll[ here](http://teamfreewillcannotbekilled.tumblr.com) on tumblr or [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreewillcannotbekilled) on AO3!
> 
> oh, and my tumblr is [here](http://holidayhoratio.tumblr.com) !
> 
> Thanks for reading, lovely!

It is the common theory of psychologists everywhere that humans, after having one thing happen to them again and again, are prone to unusual reactions if their routine is broken. After several thousand years on Earth, the same could be said for one Mr. Anthony J. Crowley.

 

On many days of the winter season, he would drag himself out of whatever or whomever's bed he happened to be in at the time, trudge to the Bentley, and drive to Aziraphale's bookshop. The entire day, almost no one would bother them, the angel sitting at his desk and reading yet another dusty old book, the demon lounging around on whatever piece of furniture he found most comfortable at the time with his phone, attempting to start flame wars on Twitter. If anyone did come in, Aziraphale did everything short of murder to get them out.

 

This particular December day did not appear to be any different than the ones before, a fact for which the two of them were infinitely grateful. However, neither Crowley nor Aziraphale had noticed the gaggle of old ladies tottering down the sidewalk.

\--

Each octogenarian (to put it politely) was adorned in a grotesque knitted sweater with the words "Grannies from Hell" somehow stitched into the back. Any pedestrian unlucky enough to pass by them would a) be hit by a stench that was certainly not old lady smell, and b) most likely have a sweater knitted directly onto them that scratched at body parts only handmade sweaters can reach.

 

Many people might be surprised to find that Grannies from Heaven aren't all that different. They simply reach their cheek-pinching quota more often. And, despite the fact that Grannies from Hell are, well, from Hell, they are impervious to holy water or wards. This has caused mild trouble for several unfortunate priests throughout the years.

 

The elderly women hobbled down the street as fast as their wobbly knees would allow, though one would never mistake them for speed demons. Their final destination: Aziraphale's bookshop.

\--

"Crowley?" Aziraphale peeked over the edge of his mint-condition Les Mis copy.

 

"Yes, angel?"

 

"I'd immensely appreciate it if you stopped rearranging the shelves. The Agatha Christies were just delivered, and if there is so much as a folded page..." The hollow threat hung in the air exactly how bricks do not.

 

Crowley pouted, shifting his position in the tartan chair by Aziraphale's desk. "People on Twitter aren't responding to a thing I write. What else am I supposed to do?"

 

"You can fix the shelves, for one thing." When the demon didn't rise from his spot, Aziraphale moved to put the books back in their proper order himself.

He gently slid Murder on the Orient Express out and placed it back where it belonged. Unfortunately, he had never taken the chance to meet Ms. Christie, but her books were among his favorites.

 

At that exact moment, Grannies from Hell practically tumbled inside. Even Crowley crinkled his nose at the deadly aroma radiating from the women, flicking his forked tongue out in displeasure.

 

"Er, madams-" Aziraphale nearly gagged. If he was discorporated, he would have a lot of explaining to do.

 

"Do you have any Shhhakespeare?" the granny by the name of Irma croaked.

 

The angel could simply shake his head and hold a hand over his mouth. As a small number of them turned to face Crowley, he could see the words "Grannies from Hell" on the back of their hideous sweaters. Aziraphale may have faced teasing from a certain demon because of his love of tartan, but he drew the line at handmade sweaters (especially ones made by first-time knitters).

 

Crowley raced to the back room. It wasn't the smell that made him run but a plan. A ridiculous, awful, slapdash plan. Granted, he wasn't the biggest fan of changing form due to his fear of forgetting how to change back, but it was the best option they had.

Plus, he didn't want to be the one that had to face them. Even demons have to be nice to grandmothers.

 

A few moments later, Crowley literally slithered out from behind the door and into the main room. The old ladies had poor Aziraphale cornered by the shelves of signed copies, forcing him against his precious books.

 

"Please, I need a copy for my little granddaughter!"

 

"Would you like some cookies, dear?"

 

"The book reminds me of my late husband!"

 

The ladies clamored around one helpless angel, who was flailing slightly.

 

  
_Here goes_ , Crowley thought.  _Everyone needs to scare an octogenarian in their lifetime. Why not do it while you have the chance?_  


His obsidian scales clicked against the bamboo-wood flooring as he slithered forward. "Ladiesssss," the snake hissed. Huh. He had never done  _that_  before.

\--

When one sees a live snake, there are normally cries of "Ewwww!" and "Get it away from me!", and, logically, old ladies are supposed to do the same. By now, dear reader, you probably don't need to be reminded that these were no ordinary grandmas.

\--

Crowley was not expecting cooing at all.

 

They had whirled around in an instant, surprisingly nimble for a group that had taken 40 minutes to hobble down the sidewalk in Soho. It must have been the knitting.

"Awww, look how chubby he is! What a cutie!" Granny Irma attempted to bend down to pat him, yet her knees were "not what they used to be", according to Mimi Betsy.

 

Crowley snapped at her heels, and she struck at his head, just as the Big Man Upstairs had foretold.

 

"A feisty cutie, apparently! Well, dearies, our work is done here. It was a treat to meet you, sweeties!" With that, the stench and the old ladies made their way out. Rather abruptly, Aziraphale noted.

 

"Thank you for that, dear. You saved me from being kil- unfortunately discorporated." The angel scooped up Crowley, holding him close. After all, dropping a snake was not the best idea. Well, that and one other thing...

\--

Anthony J. Crowley was human-shaped once more after a quick shift with help from Aziraphale.

 

"That was... Disturbing, but mildly fun. To the Ritz?"

 

"Naturally."

 

With that, an angel and a demon made their way to the Bentley, scales or no.


End file.
